


A Lothal Fairy Tale

by EyeLoch



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Fairy Tale Style, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8716447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeLoch/pseuds/EyeLoch
Summary: A traditional story of Lothal, perhaps based on some distant history, perhaps merely a tale to teach children their planet's ways..."In the far past, when the stones were almost new, a child was born.  An ordinary girl she was, born to a small farming family and a simple stone dwelling.  Yet she knew roots and she knew legacy, for her home had stood study for almost two score of years.But nothing lasts forever."





	1. The Wind Child

So then, young ones, let me tell you the legacy of:

**The Wind Child**

In the far past, when the stones were almost new, a child was born.  An ordinary girl she was, born to a small farming family and a simple stone dwelling.  Yet she knew roots and she knew legacy, for her home had stood study for almost two score of years.

But nothing lasts forever.

On her eighth birthday, a storm began.  Within the hour, ice and lightning had pulped their fields into a sludge.  Within two, water was starting to seep into the ancient house through all the cracks and holes that had been allowed over the years.  As the fourth hour began, and the clouds began to funnel towards the ground, her parents did the only thing they could – throw her into the icehouse, deep below the farm.

Even underground, she could hear the tearing of stones and cries of animals, yet here she could do nothing but shiver and cry quickly-freezing tears.  She dwelt in the icehouse as long as she could, from fear and longing to not see her home destroyed with her own eyes.

But amongst the ice, her heart frosted too.  Amongst the preserved meats, some spark of life within her seemed to dwindle.  As she emerged into the ruins of her home, three braids in her hair all that was left of her family, she vowed that nothing would take her away from her legacy.

Not even the other members of her destroyed village.

Once, twice they tore her away from the scattered stones and memories.  But every time they tried, she’d fight her way back into the cold of the icehouse and the sorrow of the destroyed farm.

Of course, the rest of the village had to move on – and thus they left the child behind.

* * *

The earth of Lothal cares for its children though, and it cared even more strongly back then.  Thus when the girl grew sick from the morning frosts, a pack of lothwolves arrived. 

The adults of the pack found this blue haired cub to be strange, but to the loth-pups she was just another playmate.  As they nipped and teased out one of her braids, she found herself smiling again.

Over the next three years the lothwolves taught her to hunt and fight; how to run faster and jump higher than any man; even when to show mercy to other creatures.  When she ran with the lothwolves, it felt like the world was nothing but happiness.

Alas, nothing lasts forever.

Even animals somehow know when the land is exhausted.  The wolves had to move on, months of travel away from her once-home.  She could have travelled with them, for to them she was a daughter like any other, but sentients can be more stubborn than any animal.

* * *

Thus amongst the fallow land she dwelt for another three years, slowly starving. 

In this time she fought with lothcats and the many other scavengers that roam over desolate land – keeping them away from the patch of grasses and grains that had once been the farmhouse of her childhood.  If she lost another braid during this time, what did it matter?  Her hair was long and matted, her clothes more furs and skins than the dress she’d once worn.  In fact, some say, a traveller passed through the barren land and thought he saw nothing but a strange, blue furred, animal.

Yet the earth still was merciful.  It bid the stones to sing to her each night, teaching her of how soil and stone slowly turned and shifted – and how all living things were part of that cycle.  This gave her empathy once more and a sense of peace as the three years ended.

Then even the stone and earth cast her away, for she had killed the land to try and protect her legacy.

* * *

With nowhere left to go she jumped into the sky.  Higher and higher she rose, until she was surrounded by nothing but the wind itself.  It could have killed her – effortlessly in fact – yet it did not.  In fact, when she – panicking – promised to obey the wind, it undid her last braid. 

“Child,” an ancient voice seemed to say “I give you three years.”

For these years she floated amongst the clouds – running where the wind ran and causing lesser destruction in its wake.  As she ran, heedless of the consequences, she made a new legacy for herself – one of pain and muttered curses.

When this apprenticeship was concluded, the wind gave to the young woman a tiny portion of its power.

“Live.” 

Were the last words it spoke.

* * *

Some say that she still runs where she whims to this day – eternally seventeen - taking just what she needs from some homes, shattering others to their very foundations.

None are left who remember her name, nor the name of her family.  She lives, but no legacy remains.


	2. Lothal cares for its Children

So, you said that’s not how your father finished that tale?  Well, most stories have more than one ending – after all, a person’s life has many.  

Which one’s true?  Well, who’s to say all of them aren't?…

* * *

Anyway, if you recall, Lothal’s child had been cast out by the earth beneath our feet – for even the greatest of stone spires must weather and shift when it’s their time.  In despair she leapt away from our planet, and found herself within the winds that once took everything from her.  She had grown in the last six years – the savage skill of the Lothwolves melded with the slow wisdoms of the earth – but wind cannot be fought.    She tried to, regardless.

When no scheme, no skill could stop the winds, she did the last thing she could think of – she begged to be the winds’ pupil!  Some say this was nothing but a cowardly way to save her life, others say that she hoped to gain the strength to avenge her legacy.  Either way, her apprenticeship with the winds began as it found (and unravelled) the last of the braids her family once gave her – wrongly sized and almost lost within the matted lengths that her hair had grown to. 

Over the next two years the followed behind the tornados and storms of our planet – stealing food and fancies on her whims.  Few saw her, and those who did oft felt sympathy for this strange teenager – blue hair streaming behind her as she leapt and prowled around ruins in ill-fitting firs. 

That was until the third year of her apprenticeship.  Then stories spread quickly – of the storm with a human face.  For now, she wielded the winds and stalked the land – bringing blessings or terror with errant breaths.

* * *

Such stories spread to a humble village by the name of Ruathol. And so they panicked as word spread of her approach. 

One woman did not, however – for her name was Gavra Thull, and she had seen off many predators and brigands in her lifetime. 

“What is one girl, compared to a pack of staving Lothwolves,” she boasted as she gathered the toughest of grasses together, “should we give in to airy superstition?”

Many of the village agreed with her, and together wove a two-tailed whip – the likes of which had never been seen before or since.  Into the ends, two metal blades were braided in – the same that had scared or hurt many man and beast – sharpened to a near-perfect edge.

The finished whip sliced through grass like air, and made mincemeat out the practice carcass.  Most of the village rejoiced – for the whip seemed so strong, and the threat so insubstantial.  

Then The Child arrived.

Gavra still boasted and postured at The Child – slicing at the grass around her feet, and trying to cut or tangle the whip into her hair.  The Child didn’t even stop walking forwards.  Enraged Gavra Thull gave a mighty spinning slash towards the young woman’s face!   

The whip stopped mid-air.

With a scowl, She blew the whip back – and the twin blades into Gavra’s cheek.  Then she wandered freely through the village – taking but some cake and a salted flank of Lothwolf.

The people of Ruathol quaked in their houses, as the child of The Winds tore at her meal with animalistic ferocity – with no care for flavour or thankfulness of a labour finished.  None had any idea what to do – none except for Marnin Vida. 

Marnin was once a travelling merchant – an untrustworthy profession in those days, for they had to leave their homes for months at a time to find other villages.  Despite his retirement, he was still viewed with suspicion by many of Ruathol’s adults– for he had seen many strange things over his fifty years.

With a trembling gait he brushed through the curtain of his door, carrying with him the wide basket in which he stored the treasures he had found or bought over his travels.  Perhaps he arrogantly thought he could see her off, or perhaps he was desperate to try to help the village that had taken him in.

Regardless:

“Young lady,” he called out to her, “I give t-to you my life’s treasures.”

She pulled the basket towards herself, and in delight picked and pawed through the many crystals, beads and jewels.  As she span a blue crystal on her palm, she giggled, and many in the village breathed a sigh of relief.

Still laughing, she reduced Marnin’s house to fine powder.

* * *

In despair, the residents of Ruathol fled to the stone spires - bringing what legacy they could carry with them.  There they found Elam Eben, the hermit. 

Very few trusted the aged man – for he lived like the earliest of Lothalians, in a tent of woven grass and animal bones, never putting down roots.   But with no homes of their own, the people saw nothing wrong with begging for his help.

“Elam Eben,” they called, “can you stop The Wind Child?”

For almost an hour they pleaded for an answer, until finally he replied – with a soft voice – “No.”  At this many cried and shouted, until Elam Eben spoke again.  “She will come to this place within the week, for perhaps she seeks to harm those who had less devotion than her, but Lothal can protect its children.”

The hermit had the strongest men and women of the village attach strong ropes to the greatest of the stones, and pull clockwise.  The work was hard, with many quickly growing exhausted, but the children of the village kept them fed and watered.  Some scoffed that they were listening to some half-crazed old man, but still they continued – the stone slowly rising.

After almost two days of turning, an entrance could be seen. “Quickly!” Then cried the hermit, “enter the dwelling – She comes.” 

Even as the last of the people entered the stone chamber, the winds began to writhe.  However, once the final child came through, Elam Eben closed the chamber.  

As the seventeen year-old arrived at where the people of Ruathol had camped, she raged – for she thought her prey had escaped her grasp.  But then she realised that they had sort shelter amongst the stones – like she had six years earlier.

She moved the winds to knock the stone over, but they could not.  She called upon the winds to shatter the stone, but they could not.  She blew incredible winds around it for three days but could not raise the stone – for no wind could, only the community working together. 

But by blowing in just one direction she created a vast tornado, and lost control – being pulled far away and losing even her body, becoming just another part of the wind.  Some even say she can still be heard, in the right storms, howling like a lothwolf and crying like a human.


End file.
